A Dangerous Man

by Charlie Huston

  —He’ll have bodyguards.

  —Yes.

  —They’ll kill me.

  —They will kill you, or we will kill you. Someone will kill you, yes. Either way, Tetka Anna maybe will be able to sleep.

  He peels the cellophane from a fresh pack of cigarettes.

  —And we will not have to go to Oregon.

  It’s a long drive. Every bump hurts. I think about a town on the Oregon coast. A place we used to go when I was a kid. We’d go up every summer. There was a campground near the beach. We’d bring the dog we had when I was a little kid. We’d go to the beach and watch the dog chase the waves. I stopped going when I was in high school. Summertime, there was always a baseball camp, always something more important. But my folks went without me. And they always talked about how they’d like to retire there one day.

  We stop at the intersection of Brighton Beach Ave. and Brighton Road. Adam hands me a paper bag with a gun and a handful of bullets inside. I get out of the car. And then they drive away.

  I heft the paper bag. That was smart of them, giving me the empty gun. If it had been loaded I would have shot them.

  IT’S ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL day at the beach, just after twelve and the coastal haze is burning off. I walk the two blocks to the boardwalk. Right there, where the street dead-ends into the boardwalk, is a place called the Smoothie Café. My stomach rumbles, reminding me I’ve not eaten since the dogs I had at last night’s ball game. I walk past the café and up the steps to the boardwalk.

  The Brighton Towers, a sixties-styled modern apartment building, rises above me on my right. American flags dangle from several of the balconies. Coney and the ballpark are off in that direction. The Cyclones have a day game. Miguel and Jay will be there. Batting practice is probably ending. I would have liked to see Miguel play again. He’s good at the game. I look the other way.

  I can see the colored awnings of the four or five Russian cafés that cluster together about a quarter mile away. The beach is just starting to fill. People walk past me, across the boardwalk and down to the sand. They carry their blankets and coolers and umbrellas toward the water, their children running ahead of them. I go to one of the benches that face the sea, walking past an older Russian couple reclining on beach lounges, little squares of white cardboard tucked under the bridges of their sunglasses to protect their noses from the sun.

  I sit on a bench.

  I want to lie down on this bench. I want to pull my jacket and my shirt open and feel the sun on my skin. I want to find a bag of ice and lay here with it sitting on my face. I want to sweat and feel the poison leaching from my body. Instead, I open the paper bag.

  There’s the gun and five bullets. The gun is a Norinco. It’s a mass-produced Chinese knockoff of a 1911 Browning. It’s a very bad gun. It is legendary for both its inaccuracy and its utter lack of reliability. Anything over five yards is long range for this gun. Walk right up to someone, stick it against their heart, and there’s still a good chance you’ll miss. That’s if you can get the thing to fire without jamming. I put my hands in the bag, eject the clip and snap the rounds into place.

  I look to my left and catch the Russian woman with the square of cardboard on her nose looking at me. She quickly turns her face back toward the water. She’s wondering what I’m doing with my hands in the bag. She’s wondering if I’m fiddling with my lunch. The bag is in my lap; maybe she’s wondering if there’s a hole cut in the bottom of the bag so I can play with myself while I look at the girls on the beach. If only.

  I push the clip back. It clicks, but when I turn the gun over it drops right out. I push it in again, hear the click, give it another tap, and hear another click. It stays in this time. I point the gun down and work the slide, chambering a round. It’s sticky, but the bullet seats itself without going off. So that’s something. I flick the safety up and down several times, making sure it doesn’t have a nasty habit of flicking itself off. It seems OK. I take a look at the woman. She snaps her head back to the ocean again. I stand up, turn my back to her, and, as I walk around the bench, I take the gun out of the bag, tuck it into my waistband, and pull my jacket over it. I drop the empty bag into a trash can.

  I start walking toward the cafés.

  I’m holding the jacket closed over the gun. I have to do this because I can barely button the jacket over my fat gut. If I walk up to David with the jacket buttoned over the gun, he and his bodyguards will see the huge bulge it makes. Why’d they have to give me such a big gun? Something smaller I could have carried in my pocket.

  I walk past a big concrete shelter: open on all four sides, stone tables with chessboards set into the tops, wood benches. A few people play, moving their pieces around the boards. One man reads a book patiently as he waits for his opponent to finish studying the game and make his move. I keep walking.

  I’m trying to come up with a plan. It’s hard because I’ve never really planned to kill someone. The people I’ve killed on my own, it always just happened. The ones I killed for David, Branko always made the plan, explaining to me carefully why he had set things just so, preparing me for when I would do this on my own. And here I am on my own, but this is not the way anyone planned it.

  I’ve passed the Brighton Playground. The first café is just ahead. It’s the Volno Café, a blue awning with yellow letters, a handful of people at the tables. A gull screams overhead.

  I can walk up to him with my right hand out, ready to shake. It will give me an excuse to get very close. But I’ll have to shoot with my left hand.

  There are a few apartment buildings before the next café. I walk past a Parks Department “comfort station.” The smell of urinal cakes is blown toward me.

  The Café Tatiana is next, a blue awning with silver letters. The same tables, same people, the same signs with Russian letters. What do they call that? Cyrillic?

  I can pull the gun with my right hand as I walk to the table, start shooting from several feet away, hope the bullets don’t go awry, hope the terrible gun doesn’t jam.

  Right next to the Café Tatiana is the Tatiana Restaurant. One imagines a dispute between former business partners. A dispute that ended in an act of spite as one of them bought the space next to the original and opened a place with a nearly identical name. A very Russian strategy, meant to drive the former partner not so much out of business as out of his mind. Beyond them is the Winter Garden. And pinched-in before that, the Moscow Café.

  I slide the jacket from my right shoulder. With a bit of maneuvering I’m able to take it off while keeping the gun concealed, then slip the gun into my left hand, the jacket draped over it. It’s already a hot day, I can feel the sweat in my pits dribbling down my sides. It will make sense that I have the jacket off. If only the gun weren’t so big.

  I’m walking past the Tatiana Restaurant, the one I fancy was opened by the spiteful partner. I see again those fluorescent green and orange napkins blossoming from the water glasses on the tables. They remind me of caution signs. Markers warning of some peril in the road ahead.

  Such a big fucking gun. Don’t they know a small gun will kill just as well from two feet as a big gun will?

  I see the red awning of the Moscow Café. It is the smallest of the cafés, only five or six tables on the boardwalk, a few more inside, and a short bar. Above it, where it abuts the Winter Garden, I can see the little corner turret window of David’s office. His castle keep. Laundry lines are strung between the buildings behind the Moscow. Someone has a window garden of nothing but sun-flowers.

  I look at my left hand and forearm, draped under the jacket. The huge gun makes that arm look nearly a foot longer than my other one. Maybe I can walk up to David and tell him what has happened. Maybe he will be grateful. He will send people to protect my parents from Adam and Martin. I’m in front of the Moscow.

  I see David.

  He’s alone.

  There are no bodyguards anywhere. He’s alone. I look around for some sign of Adam or Martin. I can’t see them.r />
  There are no bodyguards. I can do it. I can kill David. And Adam and Martin? Without bodyguards to take care of, I’ll have bullets left. I can handle them. I can handle them and I can get away. David sees me.

  I walk toward him.

  I put out my hand.

  He starts to rise.

  Words are coming out of my mouth, something about being early. Something about being sorry for making trouble.

  His hand is out.

  Branko walks out of the shadows inside the Moscow Café, a glass of tea in each hand.

  BRANKO AND I had a conversation once.

  I was still at the Suites. It was after my face had healed. We had worked together a couple times, but it was before The Kid. We had just come back from beating someone. Branko had watched, I had beaten. The knuckles of my right hand were swollen and the skin over them split and bleeding. Branko looked at them, then filled a bowl with ice water and had me soak my hand.

  —If you are going to beat someone with your fists, you want always to have gloves. Leather work gloves are best. Better is to beat a person with a tool. Something that will not break. Something that will not break bones, unless you want to break bones. A shoe. A rolled magazine. A book. Bars of soap in a sock. These are all good. If you use your hands, always you will break your fingers. You see?

  He showed me his hands. Large working hands, but no scars or knobs on the knuckles; signs he had already taught me to look for, indications that this one is a fighter. Branko wanted no one to know he was a fighter.

  —I have always protected my hands. My hands will never fail me when I must hold a knife or a gun. When you are holding a knife or a gun, these are the times you must be able to trust your hands. Save your hands for these times.

  He took my hand from the ice water and inspected it, blotting the blood with a dishrag.

  —David tells me you have killed men.

  He put my hand back in the water.

  —He says you have killed some the TV does not know about, but not all they say you have. Do you know how many?

  I did. And I told him the number.

  He nodded.

  —It is likely you will never meet someone who has killed more.

  He leaned back in his chair.

  —I have killed more. But that is different.

  He took off the reading glasses he had worn as he inspected my hand.

  —Do you like to kill?

  I told him I didn’t.

  He folded the arms of his glasses and tucked them away inside his Windbreaker.

  —Few men do. Only the sick. But all men, I think, get used to it.

  He leaned forward again.

  —Have you gotten used to it?

  Under the ice water, I made a fist of my hand. It felt tight and I could only close it halfway. I told him I was starting to.

  He stood up.

  —That will make it easier.

  He went to the door, stopped, pointed at my hand.

  —Keep it in the water as long as you can. Next time, we will try it with a shoe.

  BRANKO WALKS OUT of the shadows inside the Moscow Café, a glass of tea in each hand.

  He sees me. I freeze. David sees me freeze. Sees what is in my eyes as I look at Branko.

  David looks down. I look down. He is not looking at my left hand, at the ridiculously obvious bulge beneath the jacket. He is looking at my wrist, at my right wrist sticking out of my shirtsleeve. He is looking at the red welts on my wrist.

  —Henry?

  And then Branko is between us, the glasses of tea still in his hands.

  —Go inside, David.

  And David does. He turns and walks quickly into the Moscow without another look.

  I look at Branko. He is looking at the welts.

  David is gone.

  I have failed.

  Branko sets the glasses of tea on a table.

  I run.

  I RUN PAST the cafés and the comfort station and the shelter and the park. I’m winded. I’m worse than winded, I am fat and covered in sweat and gasping. I quit smoking long ago, but my lungs burn. My legs feel wobbly and unwilling to move. And every pounding step I feel in my face. I should have taken more Motrin. I should have never flushed the pills. I should be sitting on the floor of my shitty apartment zoned on Demerol, listening to music and staring at the carpet with spit running down my chin. That would be nice.

  People look at me as I run past them, a man in black jeans and shirtsleeves running on the boardwalk, sweat rolling down his face. I pass the handball courts. My lungs are still heaving.

  I look back over my shoulder. There is no sign of Branko. Of course not. He would never run after me, never risk attracting attention. Where will he be? The streets? He will be thinking. He’ll be thinking about me on the boardwalk, lost, panicked, not knowing what else to do but keep going straight. He’ll be on the streets parallel to the boardwalk, checking the breaks between buildings, making certain I stay on my course. I should get off the boardwalk. No. That’s what he’s thinking. He’s thinking I’ll think too much and head for the streets and he’ll be there, looking for me. Or he’s not on the street, he is behind me. Right behind me. I stop and spin and a man on Rollerblades behind me makes a sharp cut. He skates past, flipping me off. I have to cool down. I have to get it together.

  Branko is in New York.

  Why?

  To kill me.

  And it’s not because of the fucking picture in the paper. There’s no way Branko could have gotten here since that picture came out. They wanted to use me to kill Mickey’s mother and then get rid of me.

  I stop running. Running, I am an easy target.

  I stroll toward Coney Island and the thick crowds around the amusement park. I watch the faces. The further I get from Brighton, the fewer are stamped by Russia. I’m past the Aquarium, just ahead is the fence surrounding the Cyclone.

  Hiding in that crowd won’t be enough. I need to think. I need a Percocet. I need a plan. I need a Darvocet. I need to know what Branko is doing, where he is. I need—

  Shit.

  Oh, shit.

  Branko isn’t hunting for me. Branko is in a car going to the airport. Branko is calling the airline and booking a flight to Oregon.

  I turn around and start heading back.

  I have to kill David. I have to find a way up into his office and kill him. I. No. I have to go to him and beg. I have to explain. No. Kill him. That’s. Wait.

  Branko won’t be on a plane. They can’t have me running around. There’s too much I can tell the police if I’m caught. David won’t just kill my parents. He’ll use them. He’ll. What? He’ll.

  I lean against the chain-link around the Cyclone. I tilt my head back and close my eyes, letting the sun fall on my face.

  They will call me first. They will call me and tell me to come to them or Branko will leave for Oregon. That is what they will do.

  My phone rings.

  It’s nice to be right about something every now and then.

  I answer the phone.

  —Henry, what is this? What is this you are doing?

  I stand with my back to the fence, my eyes still closed, the sun still on my face.

  —Why are you calling, David?

  —Henry, Henry. What is this? Why am I calling? Why are you running? What is the trouble? Someone has been talking to you, yes? Yes? This, you do not need to answer. I know.

  —Where’s Branko?

  —Branko, Branko is here.

  He will be pointing at his own forehead. Think, Henry, what else would Branko be doing?

  —He’s not on his way to my parents?

  —Henry.

  His mouth will have dropped open. You could think such a thing?

  —Are we children? We are not. We can talk. Is Branko on his way to your parents? No. No, Henry. What sense is there in that? None.

  My hand is still stuffed inside the balled jacket, sweating on the gun.

  —Let me talk to Branko.
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  —First, we talk.

  —Now, I want to talk to him now.

  —Tell me.

  —Where’s Branko?

  —Branko is here.

  —Let me talk to him.

  Silence.

  —I want to talk to him.

  —Of course.

  More silence. I stand there waiting. I stand there waiting while David takes his time getting Branko.

  I’m standing here waiting, while David takes his time. My eyes snap open and I look down the boardwalk toward Brighton. I don’t see Branko.

  But Adam and Martin are ten yards away and getting closer.

  More running.

  I BREAK AROUND the corner. The Cyclone roars past, burdened with screaming passengers. As I run I unbutton my shirt, peel it off and stuff it in a trash barrel. Now wearing just a wife-beater, the tattoos running down my arms exposed to the sun, I cross the street toward one of the arcades. I unwrap the jacket from my hand. I stuff the gun in my waistband and tie the jacket around my middle so that it hides it. I walk into the arcade. There is a rack of sunglasses. I find a huge bug-eyed pair that sit on my face like goggles and all but cover my scar. I walk to the counter. A teenage girl wearing a blue shirt with the clown face of the Coney Island mascot silk-screened across it stands there making change for the kids playing video games. Behind her is a display of baseball caps. I put the sunglasses on the counter and point at a red and white cap with I NY on the front. She takes the hat down and puts it next to the sunglasses.

  —Forty.

  I hand her two twenties and grab my purchases.

  —Want a bag?

  I rip the tag from the hat and put it on.

  —No thanks.

  I peel the sticker from the lens of my new sunglasses, put them on and head for the arcade entrance. I look down the street back toward the Cyclone. Adam is coming. He’s alone. Martin will be up on the boardwalk in case I try to circle around. The arcade’s other entrance opens on the midway. I turn around and head out that way.

  I walk past a couple rides, spinning cars mounted at the ends of giant pinwheels. Barkers man the shooting galleries and penny pitches and ringtosses. They talk into microphones, calling for people to join in the fun and win a sawdust-stuffed Bugs Bunny. I cut straight through it all, making for the Stillwell exit. I come out into the street, walk to the corner and look across Surf Ave. at the subway station. It is shrouded in construction scaffolding, a huge sign announcing that it will reopen next summer.